


The 221st Annual Hunger Games

by SunshineThroughTheStorm



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineThroughTheStorm/pseuds/SunshineThroughTheStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year since the Dark Days, the Capitol hosts an event called the Hunger Games. The Games consist of a gladiatorial combat fought amongst twenty-four children (known as tributes) aged between 12 and 18, with one boy and one girl chosen by lottery from each district.</p>
<p>This is the story following a selection of Sherlock characters as they go through Reaping Day in their districts. Will the odds be in their favour?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. District One

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to apologise in advance for the confusing POV switches; I wanted to explore the story from all different POVs than just one person.

 

My father aims a punch to my ribs; I rapidly dive out of the way, and kick him in the chest. He moves to the side, catching my leg to flip me onto the ground. My back collides into the hard stone of the terrace, knocking the breath from my lungs. He's winded me. He's won. "Too slow, Anthea," he offers a hand to help me stand. "You're not performing to the peak of your ability today."

"No," I admit. "I've been thinking about the Reaping." We enter the kitchen, where Mother has been baking bread for our breakfast. Although the Reaping isn't until nine, my father and me have been practising since five. He wants me to be performing to the best of my capabilities today, so that when I volunteer later on, I have the power to win the Games. I will have the power to bring honour, glory and victory home. I've been trained to kill since birth. Well, probably not birth, but I have definitely been training for the Games for as long as I can remember. My earliest memory is entering the Academy for the first time and being given a sword to exercise with.

The Academy is a pleasant place, but they never televise it when District 1 is shown. Whenever victors from other districts or Capitol officials come over to us, the tour guides tell them that it is merely an old warehouse that we used to store fine fabrics in, but a flood ruined it. Since then, the warehouse has been abandoned to dry out.

This part isn't entirely false. It was once a fabric warehouse, and it was ruined in the floods many, many years ago. I love being there. The trainers and coaches are very helpful. You can always rely on them to impart wisdom, and to lend a helping hand if you want to practise unarmed fighting with another. Most are victors themselves.

My father was a victor. I grew up in an extravagant house set in the heart of Victor's Village. It is far from the jewellers' shops and the embroidery houses. The 'factories' of District 1, if you like. They are the places where we make luxurious items for the Capitol, such as diamond tiaras and silk purses.

"Don't worry about it. You've had plenty of practice." My father says. "I think you're ready. But you had best be on your guard in the arena. Remember, every-"

"Every second I lose is a second gained by my opponent. Yes, Daddy. I remember." I bite into my bread roll. "Don't patronise me." I reach over for the cheese spread that my father accepted from one of his lovers in the Capitol. He flirts with ladies there, wrapping them tightly around his finger, and they send him gifts. The presents that he receives range from food parcels to fine jewellery. The irony of the jewellery is that most of it was made on our doorstep anyway.

"Anthea, it's almost seven o' clock. Shouldn't you be getting ready?" Mother reminds me.

"What dress are you going to wear?" Father asks as I place my dirty plate into the sink. To be honest, I haven't given it much thought. I've been more focused on my combat skills than dolling myself up. I think about my purple dress, the one which looks almost black. It's the same colour as blackberry wine.

"My purple one," I say with confidence. It's a nice dress. It hugs my figure and stops well above my knee. "With my knee-high boots." It's an outfit I've never worn before, but one must look their best for the Capitol. I'll be seen by every citizen of Panem. I want to make an impression.

Mother looks at me. "And what about your hair?"

"I don't know!" I snap. "I'll decide when I get out of the shower." I storm up the stairs moodily. My mother's nagging is pointless and counterproductive. She wishes I was more ladylike, and had more female company. She wishes I behaved like her baby girl, the baby girl that she was so happy for. Instead, I behave like the son that my Father always wanted. The truth is, I hate the other girls in our district. They're all two-faced and shallow. District 1 is famed for the beauty of its residents, and every girl knows it. At school they sit together discussing dresses and Capitol celebrities, the latest fashions and other such nonsense. The only time they like thinking about the Games is when they're discussing and rating the male tributes on their hotness scale.

With the boys, we like fighting or swapping tips on how to improve. I live for the fight. I have successfully managed to fine tune my body into a precision instrument of death. I can use any weapon to my advantage. Whilst I favour the sword, I'm also handy with a javelin or spear, and I can throw knives a fair distance. Last time we measured at school, I threw one dagger about 60 metres to hit the dummy we train with in the neck.

Peeling my sweaty training clothes off, and strewing them across the bathroom floor, I step into the shower.

* * *

"Mycroft, breakfast!" My brother screeches at the top of his lungs. I lazily stretch out and drum my fingers on the bookshelf above my head. Books, such interesting things. Whilst the others in my district fight for glory and honour, spending their days perfecting their aim and preparing for the Games, I read.

I read because books they are full of information and knowledge; many tributes who could have been victors have lost because they ate poisonous berries, or made other, ridiculous mistakes. They could have won, but they didn't have the data about plants or camouflage to save them from being hungry, or being hunted. They thought that their training and weaponry made them immortal. But they were wrong.  _So very wrong_.

People like me are mocked. People like me are taunted for not fighting and practising, but instead burying themselves in knowledge. People  _like_  me. I am not used as the town's punching bag, because the way I conduct myself makes people afraid. I exude confidence and power. A single glance and I own them. If I am drawn, then nobody will volunteer in my place. If I choose to volunteer today, then nobody will challenge me.

"MYCROFT!" My brother yells again. He has a pair of lungs on him, that kid.

For once, I'm glad of the age gap between us. Seven years between my brother and me. Usually, I worry about it. I worry about my brother constantly, but I don't worry now. I am seventeen, which means that my brother is safe from the Reaping. He's ten. You're first entered into the Reaping at the age of twelve, which means that I will not be able to protect him if he does get drawn.  _When he comes of age_. The other children bully him and pick on him, and treat him like the class punching bag, but I can intervene. The children think he is weak; if he were ever drawn, they would probably volunteer to save District 1 from the shame of having a nerdy, non-Career tribute. Career tribute. You can't make a career from being a tribute. Tributes are not paid for their 'services' in the Games, only the victors are.

Being a victor, now that  _is_  something you can make a career from.

"Mycroft, if you don't come down right now, I'm eating your bacon!"

I rise to my feet, brushing away the bits of fluff and lint that I seem to have gathered lounging about on the carpet. I suppose that I'd better go downstairs and eat something, before baby brother scoffs the lot. Appetite of a horse, that one. I inspect my hair in the mirror, using a hand to smooth the dark strands into a presentable look. I would like to moisturise my face first, but the beguiling scent of the bacon overrides the desire to smooth my skin. I suppose that I can do it when I get dressed into my Reaping outfit. That's it, hanging there on my wardrobe. It is a fine example of District 8's sewing skills; a three piece suit in an exquisite shade of cream and brown.

"Good morning, Mycroft, my darling," my mother greets as I step off the last step. She has to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss my cheek. "Would you like some breakfast? I saved you the last slice of bacon before Sherlock polished off the lot."

"Thank you, Mummy," I say. When I get to the dining room, my brother is still at the table with his reading book. He's so bony; it's always odd to think that this skinny runt is the one who eats the most food in this house. "Good morning, Sherlock."

"Your breakfast is next to the sink," he says in a way of reply.

I rescue my sausages from where the leaking tap has been dripping on my plate, before pulling out the seat opposite his. I cut my eggs into easy, manageable pieces. Through a mouthful of hash brown, I ask, "What are you reading about today?"

My brother wrinkles his nose at me, "Don't speak with your mouth full, Mycroft. It's disgusting." He waits for me to swallow. "I'm reading a book that I found in Father's study, entitled  _The Greatest Moments of the 183_ _rd_ _Hunger Games_." He lifts the book up to show me the cover.

"Why on Earth are you reading that?"

He shrugs, "It's really interesting. For example, when Andrew Scott carved out Soo Lin Yao's eyes? Had she won, that would have been his signature event." The picture is rather gory. The editor of the book had elected for a still of Soo Lin's eyeball on the end of Andrew's switchblade.

"Sherlock, I'm eating!"

"You're always eating. Soon, you'll be a whale!" My brother mocks, sinking further down into his chair to read. A shriek came from the next room. My brother and I stare at each other for a split second, before jumping into action and racing to Mummy's aid.

She was pointing at the clock. "We're going to be late!" Hurriedly, Mummy begins ushering us back up the staircase to get washed and dressed. "Quickly now, don't dawdle!"

"Mummy, we thought it was something serious," my younger brother complains as he is shunted upstairs by Mummy's strong arms.

"Being late is serious, Sherlock," I say smugly, helping Mummy to push him into the bathroom.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

* * *

I step out of the shower, and wrap the towel around my body. I look at myself in the mirror. My dark hair is darker still, due to the water absorbed into each strand, and my eyes are like black holes set into my pale face. I smile. Today is going to be a great day.

Towelling my body down, I slip into my undergarments. They cling to my wet skin, so I towel my legs again. My purple satin dress from the Capitol hugs my figure like a serpentine creature. I like the way it looks on me; it pulls me in at all the right places, so my curvy body is flaunted in all the right ways. I look sexy from every angle.

I squeeze my hair to drain off the worst of the wet, allowing it to splash on the floor. The servants can clean that. The perfumed scent of the soap I use fills the bathroom, and I know it's clinging to my skin like an herbal cloud. How should I wear my hair? I'm going to volunteer this year. I'm definitely going to be on everybody's screens, so I'd like to look pretty. This is when I wish I had at least one girl friend, someone who I could rely on when it comes down to dresses and hairstyles. There's still a steady rivulet of water down my back, reminding me that I need to decide on a style before I get my dress wet.

Someone raps on the bathroom door. "Anthea?" It's my mother. "Would you like me to do your hair now?" My mother is very into hair and makeup. She'll know exactly what to do.

"Yes, Mother," I reply, sliding the bolt across and letting her in. The cloud of perfume hits her full force. She splutters, wafting her hand in front of her face.

"Anthea, bonbon, you don't need this much perfume," she says. She comes around to stand behind me and rakes her fingers through my messy hair. "I'm going to do your hair in soft curls. Pass me that roundhead hairbrush." I scrabble my fingers against the bath to wrap them around the moulded silicon handle of the brush. A stream of water courses down the length of my arm, splashing on the floor.

Mother produces her battery-powered portable hairdryer, checking her watch. "We have the best part of an hour before the ceremony starts. I think we should leave here in thirty minutes at the very latest." I shrug, allowing her to touch my hair. She's gentle with it, and I see the curls begin to take form as they bounce into place, looking like brunette springs made of hair. It accentuates the heart-shape of my face. The minutes trickle away as I feel relaxed by my mother's touch. Volunteering today means this may be the last time I ever feel her soft skin on mine, or hear her peaceful voice in my ear like silver bells.

"There," she says after a while. The last note she had been humming lingers in the air. "You're ready. And just in time!"

I look beautiful. "Thank you, Mother." I snatch up my shoes, pulling them onto my feet in a hurry.

* * *

Washed, dressed and with my skin delightfully moisturised, we assemble in the hallway. Mummy is freaking out because we're running late, and my little brother can't find his shoes.

"Leave them!" Mummy snaps, "It's not like you'll need them." She begins pulling on my brother's arm and together we carry him over the threshold. We cannot be late today. Bundling my brother over our shoulders, Mummy and I clatter out of the house, pausing for a minor second as she locks everything. Attendance is mandatory. Luckily, I know a shortcut. I lead my mother and brother through the undergrowth, and we emerge in the District Central. We join the queue to sign in and register our attendance.

The Peacekeeper manning the stall pricks my finger and smears blood onto a glass slide. "Thank you, sir. You may go through"

I reply with a slight nod. My finger throbs in the wind as I rush to join my group of seventeen year old boys. I hate the lot of them. Spending their time in the gym, practising how to kill fellow humans, who do they think they are? They're all distracted by a new escort on the stage. I've never seen her before. Or is it a man? I peer closer, straining my eyes to see clearer. I think it's a man, but his clothes are very feminine. It looks like a short dress with a silver cord fastening it around the middle. It appears to be a tunic; I remember those were in fashion a few years ago. His hair resembles a toilet brush with scruffy brown tufts here and there. A hush befalls the crowd but there are still a few murmurs.

Our mayor, Angelo Carlucci, has risen to his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time of year again! Yes, it is Reaping Day; the first of the great events in the annual Hunger Games." He's always so zealous, but he has the sort of character to be enthusiastic about anything. After speeding through the obligatory, dreary (even by my standards) parts concerning the Treaty of Treason and the story of Panem (which we learn in school anyway), he reads the list of previous victors. There are a lot. I recognise a few names such as Cashmere Pearlcorne, Louise Mortimer, Crystal Sparks, Henry Knight, Denim Harpsichord and Jet Barry.

Once he is finished, Mayor Angelo flashes a huge smile and says, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our new District Escort, Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch!"

There are a few whoops and cheers as the grotesque creature steps towards the podium. His eyebrows have been dyed silver to match his tunic belt. A medley of colours has been tinted into his beard. "Happy Hunger Games everyone!" He pipes in his thick accent. "Up here with me is a selection of previous victors. You have been read the complete list. Who will join them? Could it be you?" He reaches neon yellow claws (there really is no other way to describe them) over the pink bowl of paper slips. "May the odds be ever in your favour!" He grasps one; you can see the paper crumple in his fist.

"Aurelia Moonshine?" The girl in question doddles onto the smooth glass stage. The stage was rebuilt by the last victor so that we would not look poor in front of the Capitol. Aurelia has a nervous face, and I knew I recognised the name. She is one of Sherlock's few friends, if you can call them that. Aged twelve now, she was the one who taught him the way around the library in the school. Too young for these Games; we all agree.

"I volunteer!" A hand shoots up from the pen of girls, accompanied by a clear voice. "I volunteer!" A willowy figure emerges from the crowd as they split to let her through. Anthea Barry, the daughter of victor Jet Barry. Of course she would volunteer; this year is her year.

I find myself drawn to her legs as she walks; their sinewy grace is something remarkable. She steps onto the stage beside Benedict Cumberbatch, striking in her boots and nude legs. She is almost as tall as him, I notice with slight amusement. "What's your name then, little girl?" Benedict jokes, taking in how tall Anthea is.

"Anthea, Anthea Barry," Anthea gushes, as if she can't believe she's made it. It's an act. She's pretending to help Aurelia to score points in the arena. We've all seen the act before, but it doesn't mean it isn't effective. "I just had to help poor Aurelia; she looked so terrified."

"That's so kind of you," Benedict says, clasping her shoulders. "Give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, for being so brave!" Anthea turns to smile at the crowd and the camera. She waves like a young child. It may be an act, but she plays the part well.

* * *

"So, Anthea, I'm going to have to leave you now for a few seconds," Benedict says to me. He knows how to play the camera, to make the Reaping a little bit more entertaining for the Capitol audiences. He bounds over to the blue bowl, pausing to look at me. "Unless… you'd like to pick?"

Me, pick my district partner? I admit the idea does sound appealing. I smile my brightest and most innocent smile. "That sounds fun." I follow him shyly. My fingers dip into the bowl; the papers feel like the slimy digits of all the eligible boys in the district, begging to be chosen, desperate for glory. I root down into the bottom, and yank a paper out.

"Mycroft Holmes."

I try to do a Capitol smile, but I know that name. Everybody in this district knows the name of Holmes. They don't fight and practise for the Games, but they keep themselves to themselves. Their father killed himself two years ago; it was a subject of gossip for weeks. The boy whose name I've just called out slowly steps from the crowd and briskly walks up the short path to the stage. He looks calm, cool and collected. Funny, considering he's one of the anti-fighting people in our District. He doesn't come down to training like most of the males in the area. So, it's a little odd that he seems so serene whilst walking towards me.

Benedict Cumberbatch smiles broadly at him. "Mycroft Holmes, the male tribute from District 1! Do we have any volunteers?" An eerie silence falls over the crowd. Usually, when an anti-Games protestor is reaped, people are falling over themselves to volunteer in their place. Falling over each other to save District 1 from the humiliation of having a terrible tribute. Nobody wants to volunteer for Mycroft.

"No volunteers? Well then, congratulations to you, Mr. Holmes. Have you met Miss Barry?" Benedict introduces us to each other, and Mayor Angelo signals for us to shake hands for the camera. Mycroft takes my hand, kissing it politely. There is a smattering of applause that I vaguely register.

I have been partnered with  _Mycroft Holmes_. These Games just got interesting.


	2. District Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presenting District Two during the Reaping of the 221st Annual Hunger Games! This story is only going to be the Reapings, and only of six districts because there aren't twenty-four Sherlock characters that I can write about well enough to fill all 12 districts. Thank you for your continued support.

I have been sitting the tree since dawn, studying the finer details of the world, almost like a painter would. But I am not an art student. Instead I am studying the world around me so that I know what to expect. I cannot be bothered to wait on the off chance that I have my name pulled out of the Reaping ball. No. I  _can't_  wait any longer. I will go into the arena, and I will have victory!

"Katherine!" My grandmother cries, "Katherine, will you come down from there at once, and eat breakfast like a civilised person?"

I dislike my grandmother. She's always trying to control me, and constrain me, stopping me from achieving my dreams. She thinks that the Hunger Games are violent and bad, and that my dream to win them is foolish and misguided. Whenever I swing through the branches of the tree in our back garden, she's standing there telling me to be careful, else I'll fall and break my neck. Just because my uncle wasn't strong enough to win the Games doesn't mean that I won't win. I'm much stronger than he ever was. All I've ever wanted is to be noticed, and winning the Games will do that for me. I will be loved by all the Capitol residents, and everybody in Panem will know who I am. I'm a winner, and I know that. I just don't understand why no-one else can see it.

I swing from my perch, as it were, and slide down the trunk of the elm tree. It's not a bad climb; the tree grew with many rung-like branches which enable easy climbing. I feel safe up there, watching the world from high above. My grandmother still cannot let go of the fact that she lost a child. She is ashamed that a son of hers died in the Games. Even I feel ashamed to be related to someone who was such a failure.

"Oh, Kitty!" My grandmother clucks, brushing at my skirt. "You weren't thinking of wearing that this morning, were you? It's ruined!"

I cross my arms. "It's the only nice skirt I've got, Granny." This earns me a tut, and a much rougher scrubbing. My blouse is too dirty to wear though. It has a layer of soil from where I misjudged my earlier jump and landed in the patch of dry earth underneath the tree. Additionally, the juice from the plum I took earlier (which was why I jumped; it was just out of my reach) ran down my hands and wrists, making me sticky and staining my cuffs.

My grandmother whips off my blouse and replaces it with another one. The new blouse is crinkled and powdery, with a faint lavender scent. Granny must have given it to the blind old lady on the corner who washes fine fabrics for those who don't have the time, energy or patience to treat them with care. I wish I had nicer clothes. I only have one elegant skirt, and my grandmother has rehemmed it at least twice. Other girls can afford lots of pretty clothes and spend hours getting gussied up for school. They must spend days perfecting their hair and make-up and selecting an outfit for Reaping Day. Me, all I have to do is pick the least grubby blouse and a pair of tights without a ladder. Easier said than done.

Granny sends me off to the kitchen to wash my face and hands at the sink. I'm not as filthy as she's making out. I could have spent this morning hiding in the mud and working on my camouflage. Then I'd be caked in dirt and my hair would need washing again, so really, what is a little berry juice when compared to thick, slick mud?

"I'm clean!" I shout, drying my hands in a tea towel, and patting my red cheeks. Strands of ginger hair stick to my damp face when my grandmother enters the kitchen. She gently moves my hair out of my mouth, smiling as it sticks to the streaky lip-gloss.

"Kitty, you don't need any make-up; you're beautiful the way you are," she stands behind me and runs her fingers through my hair. "Would you like me to do your hair today?"

"Yes, please, Granny," I mumble, looking out of the kitchen window. I can see the side of next door's house with its climbing ivy spreading out across the brickwork. It's an empty house now; all the sons have gone out into the world, and the lady died after she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Death by misadventure, they'd said. We all know the truth though. She'd been pushed by her son because he wanted his inheritance, and the crazy woman wouldn't give him any money.

I can hear the scraping of the brush as Granny pulls it through the tangles forcefully. She's quite heavy-handed, but that must be from all those years working in the quarry hewing stones into smaller ones which are more transportable. She has a lot of scars on her hands from all the tools she used. Granny was one of the first women to work in the quarry doing such a dangerous job. Mostly it is the men working, and the women doing washing or childcare. Childcare is quite a common profession; a lot of mothers die during childbirth so the fathers have nobody to take care of their little ones whilst they go out to work.

The elastic band pings in my ear as Granny stretches it over her hand. My mother died in childbirth, and my father died in an accident in the quarry when I was five. So I've been living with my grandmother for almost nine years now. My father always encouraged me to win, but Granny won't let me. She thinks that going into the Games would be idiotic on my part. She doesn't think I can do this. Well, I'll show her. I'll win these Games. You'll see.

* * *

Peering closer at the mirror, I smooth my suit jacket over my body. This one is a rich plum colour, and I dislike it. Why must Reaping clothes come in such garish, bright colours? Where are the greyscale clothes, black and white like the fixtures of my mind? Banished to the wardrobe for another day, that's where. Black is for mourning, such as the two minutes silence at New Year where we remember all those lost in quarry accidents in the twelve months and the two tributes that were foolish enough to lose the Games. Except we tend to accidentally forget those because it's such an embarrassment when they lose. They train in academies with past victors until the age of eighteen, and they  _still_  lose. Total embarrassment. Back to my original point: Reaping is a celebration, and we must all dress in bold colours such as reds, yellows and blues. And I find that dull.

So obvious. I  _hate_  it when people are obvious. Even when they think they're being surprising, they're being tedious and blatant. Everybody's just so boring; there's only one person in this world besides myself who isn't dull every minute of every day and that's Sebastian Moran, my legal guardian. He's still pretty dull, though, because he can be so dense sometimes. Dense and dull; that's Seb. He just has more clever moments than anyone else that I know.

I suppose that I'd win the Hunger Games in that respect, because I can predict everyone's movements. Looking at my reflection, I frown again, and peel off the hideous purple jacket. I throw it onto Seb's bed where it lands on the other discarded jackets in their disgustingly vivid shades and fabrics. I've already decided against the emerald cashmere, the vermillion Georgette, and now the plum velvet. I saunter back to the wardrobe, and tilt my head from side to side in thought. Seb has suits for every occasion, and they're in many luxurious fabrics and colours because he visits the Capitol so often and buys them in their shops.

He was the Victor of the 183rd Hunger Games aged a mere fourteen years. Apparently, they were the most exciting Games in living memory, but all the reruns I've seen have played it to death. All the exhilaration is lost. Besides, most of the excitement that they place on the Games wasn't even from Seb. He wasn't even predicted to win them; he came out of nowhere to defeat the Capitol's favourite. Richard Brook from District 8 was my favourite too; he seemed like a nice guy on the surface and once the Games started, his inner psychopath broke free and he started killing everyone he met. His own district partner, Clara Dylan, was the first one to feel his wrath. But he didn't see Seb's axe coming.

I reach into the teak wardrobe and remove a black woollen jacket. Black is my favourite colour. There's no written law that says I can't wear black to the Reaping, and even if there was, I'd still go in black. It goes with everything, and most people wear black trousers or skirts with their gaudy blouses or suits. So why can't I just wear black all over? It'd make a change. It'd even make me stand out, in a complete role reversal. I tend to  _not_  stand out, as a general rule.

"Jim!" Sebastian's gruff voice is accompanied by the squeak of the shower turning off. "Get ready; we're leaving in twenty minutes."

I press the garment to my body, admiring the way it looks against my porcelain skin, making me seem even paler and malicious. That will make the other tributes skip a heartbeat or two; seeing me stand there with my empty eyes. "Nearly ready, Seb. There are just some things I need to do first, so I'll see you in the Square. Wear something pretty."

"Don't be late," Seb says apathetically. He couldn't care one way or the other if I was late or not, as long as I turn up. It's not as strict on punctuality in our district, though rumour has it that in the outer districts there's a penalty for being late. I smile at him and exit through the front door, letting it bang shut behind me. It's a lovely, hot day. Were it not Reaping Day, I'm sure that many people would be spending today at the pool to cool off. Maybe they will all go to the pool after the Reaping; it'll get very hot if they are to stand in the Square for hours on end, listening to General Shan (a woman of few words) make endless speeches. It's the most we hear out of her all year, really. I guess she really doesn't like it when the District Escorts faff around and gush about how lovely it is to be in the most loyal district of Panem. People are idiots; Capitol people doubly so.

* * *

The Peacekeeper running the registration booth has a face like an old boot. I wouldn't admit that out loud, but she is a really frosty lady. She has steel grey hair, and a hard, lined face, and an extremely tough grip. I can feel bruises forming where her vice-like fingers gripped my wrist so she could prick my finger and smear my blood on the list beside my name. I complain under my breath as we walk away, and my grandmother frowns at me.

"Go on," she urges, "Join the other girls your age." I start walking until I hear, "Oh, and Katherine?"

I pause, turn, and smile sweetly. "Yes, Granny?"

"Don't do anything stupid, will you?"

"No, Granny."

"Good girl. I'll see you later," She marches away to where the other parents are waiting to watch the Reaping, but the difference is that most of them are filled with pride and hope that their child will be picked, and bring immense honour to the family and district. My grandmother will be so angry with me for doing this, but I cannot wait until I am eighteen to prove that I am better than they think.

I can see General Shan seated on stage, her trademark sunglasses firmly fixed to her face. Two chairs are beside hers, but they are both empty. I suppose that they will be filled later, when the previous victors who are being the mentors this year arrive. Further along, there is a tiny woman in a black hat, and her hat is laden with fruit like she's picked up a plate from a banquet and placed it onto her head. Given that this hat is on top of a massive silver coloured wig, I'm guessing she is from the Capitol, home of weird fashions. I suppose that I should familiarise myself with Capitol fashion, given that I will be seeing it everywhere for the rest of my life. I could even take up fashion design and then it'll be my creations that confuse people in the districts. That would be cool. Everyone in the Capitol is very fond of creations by victors. There was a painter a few years ago, and although some of his work was gruesome, they all sold for high prices.  _Very_  high prices. And then he went crazy and killed himself in the bath, so his stuff is even more expensive now. There's a rumour that even President Beesee has some of his work hanging in her palace.

A fuss on stage pulls me from my musings as Colonel Moran takes a seat beside General Shan. They both have titles like that to show that they have authority in the district. Moran is the mentor most years, because he won the games so many years in what is often described as the best games of living memory. The tiny woman with the hat of fruit flutters over and takes the seat beside him, talking animatedly.  _Obviously a fan_. Colonel Moran doesn't look too pleased to be meeting a fan, but he takes it in his stride and he doesn't act too angry outwardly.

General Shan stands and steps toward the podium with a sense of great purpose. "We are gathered here today, on this most noble of days, to select the tributes for 221st Hunger Games." She looks at all of us, penned at the front like the livestock I've seen on reports from District 10. "Any one of you lucky people at the front can be chosen. It will be a great honour to be chosen, and you will go forth and bring honour to this district. If your name is pulled today, or if you wish to volunteer, make sure that you make us proud."

She moves onto the Treaty of Treason, which outlines the reasons and events which led to us being in the Square today, because of the rebellions and uprisings over two hundred years ago against the Capitol. There's an additional clause that is read out because around one hundred and twenty-five years ago there was a second uprising, which is the reason that there's only eleven districts left of the original thirteen created when North America collapsed. General Shan does not dwell on this part, as she finds it dull, and moves to the next list. It is a list of previous victors. Names such as Sebastian Moran.

"These people brought pride and honour to this district," she says, "And they were celebrated accordingly, granted titles of honour and given the freedom of the district to do as they pleased." General Shan gives an almost inaudible sigh, and looks at the District Escort. "Now please welcome Una Stubbs, who will draw the names of this year's tributes." Polite applause smatters around my ears. Una Stubbs steps forward, and her image is beamed onto the screens behind so we can all see her better. In addition to the black hat laden with more fruit than our kitchen, she is wearing a shiny dress which looks like it's made of tin foil and gold chain mail boots which extend up to her thighs. She looks like the robot that presents the weather on Wednesday nights.

"Hello," Una says, waving her hand. Her hand has many golden rings on it, and each of her long fingernails is painted with a fruity motif. "Let's see which of you lucky little boys and girls will go see the Capitol in all her glory. May the odds be  _ever_  in your favour!" She throws her hand into the goldfish bowl and draws out one of the golden envelopes. Smiling at the camera, Una holds the thing by her cheek and trills, "Ooh, isn't this exciting?" She opens it and reads the name aloud. "Cinder Bingham?"

It's not my name, but I wait restlessly for her to get to the stage so I can volunteer in her place. The moment her foot goes on that step I can see that she is twice my size, but I will not wait for my turn. I want to do this, and I will go into the games this year and  _I will win_. "I volunteer!"

"I volunteer!" It would appear that I have a rival.

I push through the crowds to get to the stage first, desperate to prove myself worthy. I will not lose out to somebody else. I'm better than her, and I will prove it by winning. The people on stage are visibly confused, but I reach it first, almost out of breath but  _there_. "I volunteer as tribute."

"We have a volunteer, it would seem!" I lean on the stage trying to catch my breath as Una pulls on my arm. "What's your name, dear? Come on, up you come."

"M-my name is K-kitty," I wheeze, "Katherine Riley."

"Big round of applause for Katherine Riley, please, ladies and gentlemen!" Una trills; she has the biggest grin on her face. "The female tribute for District 2!"

* * *

Aren't ordinary people adorable? It is considered a great rudeness to not allow another to volunteer in your place, and now some untrained upstart is representing us because she wishes to prove how good she is. How sweet. Hopefully she'll be amongst the first to fall, because it's hilarious when that happens. It's even better when they're stabbed in the back, both literally and figuratively, as a punishment for trying to ruin the reputation of the district. I must confess that it's one of my favourite parts of the year.

I flick my eyes back to watch Una, the lovely Una, as she scurries to the other end of the stage where the boys are gathered. "Who will join Miss Reilly?" She reaches her hand into the bowl, digging right through to the bottom. Her nails scrape the glass which produces a noise which makes those surrounding me grit their teeth. Funnily, it's never been a sound to bother me. Una's fist closes around a silver envelope which is drawn out like a fish out of a lake in one of those programmes that Seb likes to watch. I think it's called  _Extreme Fishing_ , or something equally boring.

"James Moriarty?"

Oh. It's me. That's odd. I sigh and walk up to the stage, because I may as well do something interesting with my life. There's a growing murmur behind me as people begin to get frustrated by having two "losers" in the Games. I believe I may have to commit the ultimate faux pas and not allow somebody to take my place, just because it'll anger them even further. Seb's eyebrows are practically knitted together in a frown when I pass by him to shake hands with Una.

"I volunteer!" A hand shoots up from the eighteen year olds by the front of the stage; I knew it would be one of them.

And then another hand is thrown into the sky, "I volunteer as tribute!"

"I'll do it!"

"I volunteer!"

Lord, there are dozens of them. "No thank you," I say, watching the crowds reel. "I'm honoured to be selected to represent District 2."

"You can't even kill spiders!" Somebody else has joined in, but I think they're yelling at the original volunteer. "You're pathetic!"

"Says you!"

Oh good, now there's a punch-up starting amongst the boys who've just been told they can't fight in the Games. Una looks scandalised; General Shan and Seb don't seem to care. Well, General Shan might care but it's very difficult to tell given that she doesn't really show her emotions openly. It's part of the reason she was elected, really; she's very good at masking her emotions and it scares people into doing as they're told. If you don't know how she feels, then you can't tell what she's going to do. She always speaks so calmly, and that's more threatening than screaming and shouting.

General Shan stands. A hush falls over the crowd. She looks at Una Stubbs, and motions for her to continue. Una readjusts her hat, and stands between me and Katherine as General Shan goes to sit back down.

"Shake hands, shake hands," Una says to us, "And smile. This is a big,  _big_  honour!"

I shake Katherine's hand politely and turn to smile at the cameras. The district is still clapping courteously, although you can tell that nobody is happy with the tributes for this year. Oh well, never mind. There's always next year, and there's going to be a Quarter Quell in four more years so you can just hang on until then.

Una takes centre stage, shining bright as the sun bursts through the clouds and hits her metallic clothes. "Allow me to present Mr. James Moriarty and Miss Katherine Riley, the tributes from District 2 in the 221st Annual Hunger Games!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the lovely Una Stubbs takes the title of District Escort for this round. I probably should feel guilty, but I don't. Oops.


End file.
